


Pushing It

by orphan_account



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash, over 1000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-05
Updated: 2008-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike is stuck in a room alone with Andrew. Andrew pushes his luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pushing It

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Insanejournal's Porn-Battle.

'If you don't shut your face I'm going to tear it off.'

'You're not supposed to do that kind of stuff anymore.'

'I think under the circumstances it would be excused.'

Out of all the people to get stuck with, Spike has got stuck with Andrew, alone in a small stone room, and they're not to move or kill each other for the next few hours. Spike doubts even the First could have thought of anything worse.

Andrew starts to toss a pebble against the wall, pick it up, and toss it again.

'Stop that.'

'I have to do something, Spike!'

'Don't. It's not going to make the time pass any faster and it’s driving me bonkers.'

A dreamy look comes into Andrew's eyes. 'All we have to decide is what we do with the time that is given us.'

'Shut... up!' Spike throws a rock at the wall, hard. It echoes, and Andrew cowers in the corner. Spike settles back against the wall.

Silence.

'It's not even in the book.' To Andrew's amazement, this is Spike.

'What's that?'

'It's not in the book, that quote. Everybody said, ooh, those movies were so true to the book. Bollocks. Half the dialogue is Peter Jackson.'

'And Fran and Philippa, of course.'

'What?'

'Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens, who co-wrote it. Although I admire you sticking up for the original, sometimes you just have to let go and learn to love the new stuff, too. Now, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine...'

'Shut... up!'

'Okeydokes.' Andrew huddles in on himself sulkily.

'You're such a geek.'

'Yeah, well, get over it! We can't all be... handsome... blond... creatures of the dark. Anyway you're probably a brunette under the bleach.'

'Brunette means a brown-haired girl. Am I a girl?'

'Now you're just being disagreeable. If that's how you would choose to use the time that is given us, then, well, you just... suck.'  
Spike eyes Andrew, his vision swimming slightly. Rage and anxiety and something else are welling up inside him, and there are only two ways to still that beast.

He’s not allowed to kill Andrew. The other way, Andrew wants. He can smell it off him.

'Maybe we could play a game. I bet I could come up with a one-shot campaign, and I think I have my dice bag somewhere in here...' He pats around his pockets and reaches for his backpack.

'Andrew.' Spike is standing over him, towering black leather and violence. He descends, blotting out the torchlight, and Andrew closes his eyes, expecting pain. Spike smells like the leather, and like dust and age.  
It's so cool.

'Please, if you're going to do that, at least make a me a vampire afterwards!'

'Shut up, you bloody idiot.'

Spike's tongue tastes tangy, and his breath (he does breathe, why does he breathe?) smells like iron on the wind. Andrew's sex is throbbing, tight against his zipper. It hurts, and it's wonderful and it needs to be touched, but he puts his hands on Spike's shoulders instead. So hard, oh god, is this really happening? He keeps his eyes closed, kisses Spike back, best as he can (and this is very different from all his previous kisses). Spike cups his face, holds it still, tongues his mouth, with a touch, a tease, a flick, and Andrew feels like he could come right now.

'If you tell anyone, I really will tear your head off. It's doable, trust me. Wherever, whenever, I will know, and I'll kill you.'

'Okay,' says Andrew, and pulls Spike down for another kiss.

Nails on his stomach, running up his shirt; on his nipple, rubbing, pinching lightly, and Andrew moans quietly, bucks his hips. This won't take long at all, Spike thinks, and decides what he wants. Andrew's trousers are quickly undone, and his blood-thick sex fills Spike's hand. He risks it, and pulls Andrew down on the floor, kisses his stomach, and licks along the tempting shaft.

It's so close, it's so hot. He fights back the demon, the hunger. He takes it in his mouth, down to his throat, so hot and warm, just once, twice, three times and he has to let it go or he won't be able to hold back. Andrew's face is screwed up with the effort of not coming. 'Come on, you little twat,' Spike murmurs, and jerks him, once, twice, rubbing his thumb under the head, and with a little cry Andrew does as he's told.

Spike is hard as rock, but he's used to this sort of thing. Boys never last. But boys can do it all over again. He starts to strip Andrew, even as the boy still twitches with aftershocks. His trousers are at his ankles when Andrew asks, 'What are you doing?'

'What does it look like? We're not done. Turn over.'

'By the power of Greyskull,' Andrew whispers, his eyes widening.

'Also, shut up.'

'We can't do that! I've never done it! I… I haven't gone to the bathroom.'

'I don't care.'

'Have you got condoms?'

'Are you daft? I don't get diseases, I'm dead.'

'You could be a carrier!'

'Diseases can't live in me. Okay? Same as they can't live in corpses. Most you're going to get from me is a sore bum. Now turn over or I'll turn you over. You want it anyway, don't you?'

Andrew knows he does, and flushes scarlet. 'Holy...'

'Shut up.' Spike grabs Andrew's ankles and begins to turn him over, at the same time as the boy scrambles to turn around himself. The ground is going to chafe his knees, but he doesn't care. It's only been minutes, but he's hardening faster than that time Warren read out original Star Wars movie dialogue in Klingon.

He feels something nuzzling the back of his balls, and yep, with just that little Andrew is ready to roll.

'I... I have an anomalous kneepad,' he gasps, his muscles spasming in anticipation.

Spike snarls and spreads Andrew's cum between them, and pushes, moist now, tough but yielding, so tight it almost hurts. He snarls again, the beast close to his skin, and squeezes the fresh living flesh between his hands, and pulls Andrew's hips up against him. Andrew cries out, startled, jumping, and Spike lays himself along his warm flesh, pushing in, out, in, mmm, sweet, nice. He fumbles underneath the boy. Andrew sounds like he's weeping, his cries getting higher, he's gulping his breath, faster. Nice.

Faster.

Oh yes. It's perfect. Spike's working up to the point of release, and he opens his eyes to look at Andrew spread under him, half-dressed and muscle-tense and entirely his, and there it is, the glorious white light that blocks out the world, blocks out a life too long and complicated.

Fucking brilliant.

Andrew's slick and sweaty and made up of all sorts of tasty fluids, so Spike contends with a quick flick of the tongue on his cheek (salty, mmm) and gets up fast, buttons himself, stands with his back to the stone wall in the far corner, and catches his breath. He draws in the coolness from the stone. It'll be all right in a minute, as long as he doesn't look at Andrew.

Andrew gets up, groggy, dishevelled, and puts his clothes back on shakily.

'Spike, that was...'

'Shut up,' Spike whispers.


End file.
